The Emerald Knights
by Livewire1306
Summary: The last remnants of an ancient elven order come to aid the Inquisition.
1. Chapter 1: Ellana

Artoi Vanjeau wandered aimlessly through the Alienage. The Orlesian scowled as his fine leather boots squelched through the dark mud tracks between the hovels with only faint torchlight to guide his way. How could they _live_ like this? He was looking for nothing in particular, but it gave him a kick to see the downturned faces of the knife-eared bastards that clung to his father's keep like mould. They shied away from him: turning heads, closing doors, stepping quickly down alleyways. They all knew who he was, and they knew the consequences of his father's wrath.

Just two days ago, one of them had tried to snatch his purse. The girl might have been young – maybe ten or twelve – but that didn't mean she wasn't old enough to make an example to the rest of her people. Artoi's brother, Guillame, had wanted to spare the girl – even going so far as to say he felt _sympathy_ for the little brat – but Artoi and his father had only laughed at this. After a few hours on the rack, the girl's arms and legs had been stretched until she looked like the deformed creature she was. Father's men had taken her to the oak tree in the middle of the Alienage and hung her from the highest branches.

Artoi smiled at this, knowing that he was soon going to see the sight of her limp corpse swaying in the breeze. As he rounded the corner to the centre of the Alienage, Artoi squinted through the darkness to catch a glimpse of the girl's body. His eyes drifted along the rope, down the rope, and…

And there was nothing. Only an empty noose.

Those treacherous little shits! Artoi gritted his teeth. He would tell father, he would hang twenty, no thirty of the scum for this!

Artoi stormed through the gate that separated the Alienage and the keep and through the winding corridors of the castle. Although the Vanjeau family was not in the elite of Orlais, they were at least respectable. Plush red carpets lined the floors, and the stone walls were hung with thick tapestries depicting the Exalted Marches and various deeds performed by members of the family. Artoi reached his father's study and stopped suddenly, hearing voices from within. He leaned closer to the door, trying eagerly to listen in on the conversation. Perhaps father had already heard of the knife-ears' treachery. Artoi frowned, the language was unintelligible.

From behind him, Artoi heard a soft whistle. He whirled around, and beheld a lithe figure clad all in black leather not two feet away from him. A hood and mask left only a sharp set of cold blue eyes and a few strands of crimson hair visible, but Artoi had seen enough elves in his life to know when one was standing _in his fucking house_. Immediately, the human went for the sword at his hip, but the elf was too fast for him. As fast and ferocious as a wolf, a fist flew towards Artoi's face. Still off-guard and scrabbling for his blade, the human was caught completely unawares. The last thing the human saw was the fury evident in those icy blue eyes before he fell limply against the wooden door and slid to the floor, unconscious.

At the sound of voices, Artoi blearily opened his eyes. He was lying down – that much he knew. His arms were stretched out above him, rope tied tightly around his wrists. He tried to move his legs, but they were tied in place as well. All he could see was the grey stone roof of the castle. He groaned as he shifted his neck and felt an aching pain in his jaw flare up. Something had been roughly stuffed into his mouth. It tickled at the back of his throat, and he began to cough violently. The voices stopped, and faint, quick footsteps hurried over to him. The cloth was pulled out of his mouth as Artoi's face began to turn red. He gasped as his airway was cleared. His eyes were streaming, but through the haze he saw a pair of the darkly-armoured elves watching him closely. One of them gripped Artoi by the hair and wrenched his head up, to better examine him perhaps. His blood chilled at the sight of those

"Artoi Vanjeau?" The elf asked him. It was barely a whisper, but it was definitely a female's.

Gripped by terror, Artoi didn't make any reply.

"Answer the question, shem," spat the other elf. His voice was like a grindstone.

"I'm… I'm…" The gears were grinding in Artoi's mind, trying to formulate some kind of plan in his groggy state. "I'm Guillame. Artoi is my brother."

" _Liar_!" The female's voice rose. It filled the room with such a terrible coldness that the torches themselves seemed to flicker at the sound of it. "You are Artoi Vanjeau, first son of Renleaus Vanjeau. You will suffer for your crimes."

Before he could say another word, Artoi's head was thrust back down and the cloth was stuffed back into his mouth. A long, curved knife made of some kind of dark metal was placed before his eyes. Then a set of thin, strong fingers gripped his left ear and the cold blade sliced into the cartilage. Artoi shook and moaned, but the elf held his ear in an iron grip. It finished its path somewhere near the top of his ear. The male elf laughed harshly as his companion stepped away from Artoi and revealed her work.

"You're one of us now, shem," the male elf chuckled. It sounded like the bark of a dog. A small mirror was held above his eyes. The elf had cut a strip of his left ear off, turning it into a crude rendition of an elf's ear.

"A real knife-ear," the female hissed. "Davalen, get the old man. I want him to watch this."

Artoi heard the elf's padded boots tread across the floor to his left. The hinges of the door squealed as it was wrenched open, and the solid iron handle thumped against the stone of the wall behind it. A few moments later, Artoi heard feet scuffing along a stone floor and the rattle of a chain. He began to turn his head to one side, but the female elf grabbed him by the chin and held his head in place. He stared helplessly into her eyes as she leaned in, bringing a faint scent of pine needles.

"You will not move unless I tell you to," she hissed. "You will suffer as my people have suffered under your rule."

The elf released his head and turned her back on him, speaking rapidly in her own tongue. Artoi heard the distinctive sound of someone scribbling on a roll of vellum, then there was a moment of silence.

"Sign your name, shemlen," the female elf said in that terrifyingly cold voice.

"I'll not give in to threats, you knife-eared bitch!"

Artoi's heart dropped into his stomach at the sound of his father's voice.

* * *

Ellana Vashenn rolled her eyes at the human's resistance. It was so much easier when they just went along with things. She turned to Davalen, who was standing a few feet away from the shemlen's son. The human was stretched out on a torture rack. Ropes looped around his ankles and wrists and wound tightly around two wooden rollers, and at Selena's signal, they began to turn. Davalen grunted at the effort of turning the crank. A loud crack emanated from one of the human's limbs, and was soon followed by a muffled howl of pain. A damp patch began to spread across the human's leather hose and shirt.

"I hate it when they piss themselves," Davalen said distastefully. He leaned over the human. "Doesn't feel so good on the other side, does it shem!"

Artoi made no reply other than to moan in pain as Davalen turned the crank again. With each pop or snap, the human let out another muffled scream. Ellana saw the older human turn his head away, and snapped her fingers at the other elf in the room. Illian Astoria stepped out of the shadows. He had pulled down his mask, and the torchlight briefly illuminated the thin scars that spider-webbed his gaunt and angular face. Every elf here tonight had a reason to hate humans.

Illian grabbed the old, bald human by the neck and dragged one-handed him across the torture chamber. When he reached the rack, Illian pulled the human to his feet and held his head in place as Davalen continued to turn the crank. Tears were streaming down the boy's face now. He'd lost all will to resist. He was nothing more than a pathetic wretch now. Ellana watched on, stone-faced, as the boy's limbs continued to stretch beyond their natural limits.

"Untie him," Ellana said quietly. Davalen turned to look at her, his dark brows furrowed. "You heard me."

Davalen nodded and began to tug at the knots around Artoi's wrists and ankles. When he had finished, the broad-shouldered elf threw the human onto the floor by his father. Ellana stood over the boy, still moaning in pain.

"Get up," she said simply.

The boy tried to move his arms, then squealed in pain.

"Get up!" Ellana kicked him swiftly in the chest, flipping the human onto his back. "I said, _Get up_!"

Artoi shook his head, tears still running down his cheeks. Blood still oozed from his deformed left ear.

"Stand, you wretch!" Ellana shouted at the human.

Still, the boy shook his head.

"Stop it," Renleaus Vanjeau whispered hoarsely.

Ellana rounded on the older human, who was briskly forced to his knees by Illian.

"You know the terms," she said, her voice returning to its normal husky whisper.

"I'll sign whatever you want," Renleaus cast his eyes to the floor. "Just leave my son alone."

"Illian, go and get the others."

The elf nodded and walked straight towards the wall. As he reached it, Illian seemed to become distorted - as though Ellana was looking at him through a poorly-made window. Then he had disappeared into the stone, the tail of his cloak whipping out of sight.

"Who are you?" Renleaus looked up at Ellana. "Why are you here?"

"Quiet!" Davalen snarled, giving the old man a sharp backhand. The dark metal studs on his gauntlet cut into the human's cheek and left several bloody furrows in their wake.

The door opened again, and a group consisting of six elves and two humans entered. Unlike the two in the torture chamber, these humans had remained unharmed and untouched. Illian phased back through the wall, and without a word he once again grabbed Renleaus by his neck and dragged him over to a table in the corner, which was illuminated only by a single candle. Illian roughly pushed him into a chair and held a scroll before him.

"Read it."

Three voices emanated at once from Illian's mouth. The other elves were used to this by now, though one or two still looked uncomfortable. One of the humans actually took a step back in shock. Renleaus gave the Illian a terrified look, then began to read.

"I, Renleaus Ermandeaux Rheim Vanjeau, first son of Thibault Vanjeau, Lord of ten thousand acres of land on the edge of that area known as the Emerald Graves, being of sound mind and body, do hereby submit my last will and testament. With this utterance, I revoke all prior wills. My wife having died three years ago, my lands and titles will pass to my son Guillame."

"Illian, cut him loose," Ellena glanced back at Davalen, who was stood by the crumpled form of Artoi Vanjeau. "Cut off his ear."

"That won't be necessary," Renleaus said, rubbing his wrists as Illian sliced cleanly through the rope that had bound them.

Ellana fixed him with a steely gaze. "Cut off his left ear."

Davalen pulled a hunting knife from his belt and pushed Artoi's face to one side, then began to saw away at his ear. The human could only let out a long, low whine as a defence. Davalen straightened up and tossed the ear over to Ellana. She walked slowly over to the table, turning the bloody ear in her hands as she did so. Crudely deformed, soaked in blood, a mockery of what it used to be. Ellana brushed away these words as she placed the ear on the table. They had been hurled at the group more times than she could count. The Dalish were an unforgiving people when they felt their histories and tales were being distorted.

"It was not necessary," Renleaus whispered to her. His thick white brows were knitted together in concern as he looked past Ellana and at the broken body of his son.

"Says the shemlen that hangs a girl for trying to survive," Ellana said quietly, anger creeping into her voice. "Sign the document."

With trembling fingers, the old human scrawled his name across the bottom of the page.

"Good," Ellana said briskly, examining the signature. "Illian, deal with him. Lyna, Feras, go with him."

The elf pulled Renleaus from the chair and dragged him from the room. The other humans hastened to move out of the way as the elf passed, casting their eyes anywhere but at Illian. Renleaus did nothing to resist the elf, though from the expression on his face, he had already resigned himself to his fate. Two other elves silently detached from the group and followed.

"What will happen to him?" One of the humans asked nervously.

"Does it matter?" The other replied. "Let's just do this and get paid."

Beneath her mask, Ellana's lips stretched into a grim smile. The human snatched up the quill and scribbled his name below that of Renleaus Vanjeau's. "Witnessed by Chevalier Aramaine Derstan, Lord of Chateau Estain."

With some reluctance, the other human wrote his own name below that. "Seconded by Chevalier Istain Valarosse, son of Montigue, Lord of Chateau Villens. Can we go now?"

"Ashven, give them the money. Davalen, throw the boy out the window," Ellana examined the signatures against the candlelight.

As soon as Renleaus was dead, the land would pass to Guillame. From the group's contacts in the Alienage, it would be a change for a better. They would never know who had lifted the burden from their shoulders, and they would never learn. In Ellana's eyes, this was for the best. The Dalish sang songs of remembrance for a reason. Some things should stay dead, the clan had said. But Ellana had refused to listen to them. She had reformed the Emerald Knights to the best of her ability - a shield against the injustices that the Dalish ignored, or simply ran from.

A thunderous crash drew Ellana away from her brooding. The elves had already drawn their weapons - crossbows, swords, knives, and axes were held ready to confront whatever threat lay on the other side of the door. The Chevaliers slipped back behind the darkly-clad elves, casting nervous glances at the door. Waiting until her people were ready, Ellana wrenched open the door and stormed out into the hallway. Davalen was stood at the window, his dark eybrows pulled together in confusion as he looked out into the night. Shattered glass lay scattered on the floor at the foot of every window.

Far off in the darkness, something glowed brightly in the sky like a giant, emerald jewel.

"What is it?" Ashven asked, lowering his crossbow.

"The Veil has been torn," Illian's three voices whispered. Ellana hadn't even heard him return, but she was used to this behaviour. "It is a rift. A way through to the Fade."


	2. Chapter 2: Kasper

In the thirty-first year of the Steel Age, the small mining town of Jerraine was established in a small valley not far from the Arbor Wilds. While the Tevinter Imperium struggled to hold back the tide of Qunari invasion, Orlesian mining companies leaped into action, scraping crews together and rushing to any ore deposits still unclaimed. Iron prices were at an all-time high due to the war waged against the Qunari by the human kingdoms. By the end of the Storm Age, the ore mines in Jerraine had dried up. The mining companies had either left to find new deposits or collapsed after the Qunari signed a peace treaty with the human kingdoms. Without the support of the mining companies, the town turned to farming, and in the Blessed Age the land was bought by the Vanjeau family after a particularly good year from their vineyards. In the entire history of the town, nothing eventful had ever happened. Not since a mine collapsed and trapped thirty men inside had there been such a disturbance as that night of the forty-first year of the Dragon Age.

Kasper Verghaust narrowed his red, cat-like eyes as he picked out a shimmering emerald object in the distance. Ellana was late, and it was beginning to chafe on him. Born and bred in the Iron Legions of the Nevarran military, Kasper was a giant of an elf. Standing head-and-shoulders above most of his companions, and almost twice the width, he looked every part of the brutal warrior he was. A black bear fur hung, almost corpse-like, from his dark, spike-ridden armour. Jagged edges laced their way around crowned skulls and leering faces. The skull of a dragon was etched into his breastplate, half-covered by his cloak. In one hand, he held an enormous greatsword in scabbard made from the skin of a dire wolf. The pommel was set with a large, clear crystal, and the crossguard was inscribed with various runes. A pair of longswords hung high on Kasper's hip, their black leather hilts traced with black gold, and the pommel set with jewels. If he had been in Nevarra, this would have denoted Kasper as one worthy of attending the royal court. Scowling, Kasper turned away from the object. Trying to figure out what it was would only try his patience.

"You're looking particularly psychopathic tonight, Kasper," a glib, male voice called out.

Kasper grimaced. Disque was one of the mages from the Orlesian Circle, before it had disbanded anyway. A shallow, vain, arrogant elf who – as far as Kasper could tell – was only with the Emerald Knights because neither the Circle nor the rebel apostate mages could stand him. As the most outspoken of the three mages in the Knights, he represented them when a council was held on various decisions. On most occasions, it ended with Disque nearly coming to blows with one of the other representatives. On others, it ended with the mage getting punched in the face.

"It's nothing," Kasper grunted back, going to stand by the small fire where most of the Knights were gathered.

Eight had infiltrated the Vanjeau castle, and six had remained in the Knights' stronghold in the Arbor Wilds. The remaining six were stationed outside Jerraine, a little ways up the Eastern side of the tree-ridden valley that held the town. The town was a day's ride from the Vanjeau castle, and another day and a half from the Arbor Wilds. Kasper's group had ridden with Ellana to Jerraine, and waited there to escort them back – should anyone pursue the infiltrators.

"Don't lie, Kasper. You're no good at it," muttered Misthal, in a voice low enough that it was almost consumed by the crackling of the fire. The fire danced on the templar crest stamped onto her breastplate, and her helm glowed golden as it bowed towards the fire. She raised her voice to its normal level. "This is no time for jokes, Disque. People will die tonight."

"Is everyone here going to play pessimist?" Disque ran a hand over his head – shaved bald, but for a black ponytail – and rolled his eyes. With a flick of his hand, the mage turned the fire blue. "People die every night, Misthal. Get over it."

Kasper watched the flames for a while as they twisted and licked at the air, reflecting on what the mage had just said. The Vanjeaus were not good people, but whether that meant the deserved death, he didn't know. Kasper killed because, ultimately, it would help people – even if they didn't know it themselves. He shook off these dark thoughts, and took to watching the dancing flames in front of him. Misthal's polished plate armour reflected it like liquid sapphire, rising and falling like a tide of water. Then something connected in Kasper's mind.

"Disque," Kasper grunted, "Come with me."

"What on earth for?" The mage asked, confusion skewing his otherwise handsome face. "If you're going to challenge me to a duel on account of calling you a psychopath, then I meant nothing by it! And I'm not going to sleep with you!"

"Just... come."

Sighing, Disque pushed himself to his feet and followed the Nevarran to the edge of the camp. Kasper pointed out at the emerald object.

"What is that?"

Disque squinted out at the thing.

"I can't say for certain from this distance."

"Could it be magical?"

"It could be," Disque said slowly, his eyes straining to scan the area around the light. "Whatever it is, it's close to the town."

"Another mage, perhaps?" Kasper suggested, stumbling over the words in his guttural accent. Hearing a whisper of booted feet on the grass, he turned to see Misthal approaching.

"Jerraine has a Chantry," The templar said quietly, stepping up beside the pair, hands resting on her longsword. "No mage would be so foolish as to practice magic close to the town."

"I don't like this," Disque muttered.

A flicker of the firelight caught one side of a leering, silver mask slithering out of the darkness. As the mask drew closer, it formed a body. An elf, grim-faced and hard-eyed in spite of his young age, appeared from the darkness. His long hair hung around his shoulders, a long white streak standing out resolutely against the black. A repeating crossbow hung from a strap on his shoulder, longer than most models, and with a scope fitted to it, this was the weapon that had made Verayn Sithal famed as one of the most dangerous assassins in Val Royeaux. Unfortunately, being famed as one of the most dangerous assassins in Val Royeaux led to the inconvenience of being hunted by the City Guard for murder, and so Verayn had fled the city.

"What news?" Kasper asked the young elf. He had sent him up the valley to keep an eye out for Ellana, should she return early.

"A rift in the Eastern sky," Verayn shook his head, the mask muffling the words slightly. White scar tissue was just visible beneath the edge of the mask. "How it got there, I don't know."

"A rift?" Disque said incredulously. "Oh, that's just delightful. That has just made my night, you know that?"

"You're certain?" Kasper asked, his dark eyebrows furrowing.

"I know what I saw," Verayn snarled. "Take me at my word, Verghaust."

Kasper's pale lips parted to reveal sharp, pointed teeth, and a rasp of metal rent the air as he half-drew his greatsword. "Don't test me."

"A rift…" Misthal tilted her helm in the direction of the town. "Kasper, we must wake the others."

"Why?" Kasper's head snapped around. "What do you know?"

A bloodcurdling scream tore through the air, carried by nothing but its own weight. Immediately, the Nevarran pulled his greatsword clean of its sheath and unclasped the dragon-shaped broach holding the bearskin around his shoulders. Misthal dashed back to the campfire and, moments later, returned with her shield and two more elves. One – a female with shimmering black hair and forest-green eyes – was tall, lean, and armoured in darkly-coloured, flexible plate armour. In one hand she bore a bastard sword, the magical runes along the black blade glowing brightly in the darkness. The other – a male – was dressed in leather armour covered with leaves, branches, and other pieces of undergrowth. His head and face was covered with a hood and mask, leaving only his hazel eyes visible.

"What's going on?" The female elf – Eschell Iriloth – asked, tossing her black hair out of her face.

"A rift," Disque said simply, pulling a simple metal bar with a snake's head from within the sleeve of his robe. The bar shuddered, then sprouted into a staff. Fire glowed in the eyes of the snake at the tip of the staff.

"Then why are we just standing here?" Eschell strode towards the town. More screams could be heard.

Kasper swept up his greatsword with one hand and blocked her path. "First, we make a plan."

"People are dying down there, Kasper!" Disque snapped.

"Do you know how to close a rift?" He asked sharply, turning to the mage.

"Well, not exactly," Disque shrugged. "But theories suggest that a tear is created when the Veil weakens and demons and spirits push through to this plane of existence. If we sever the connection between the demons and the fade, it should – theoretically – close."

"How do we sever the connection?" Iorlen Halsharra, a forest ranger of the Arbor Wilds, turned his brown eyes on Disque.

"Destroy the demon's physical form," Eschell attempted to push past Kasper's greatsword, but he held it fast. Her pale face was the picture of rage. "If we go now, they might not have killed everyone by the time we get there."

"We cannot rush into battle, Eschell," Misthal said calmly. "It is sure to end in death."

"Iorlen, scout ahead and make sure the path is clear," Kasper said, a plan forming in his mind. The elf nodded, nocked an arrow, and hurried quietly down the slope towards Jerraine. "Misthal, take the centre. Eschell, the left flank – I will take the right. Disque, Verayn, stay behind us."

"We have a plan, can we go now?" Eschell snapped at the Nevarran.

Kasper nodded and pulled on his greathelm – an exquisite piece of work that displayed a screaming skull as the faceplate. Screams continued to carry on the air as the group made its way towards the town. Kasper saw Eschell visibly restraining herself from rushing in, sword raised. A dozen yards from the treeline, the group encountered an arrow thrust into the trunk of an oak tree. At the head of the group, Misthal held up an armoured fist, and they stopped dead. Jerraine was less than a quarter of a mile away from them.

"Iorlen?" She called up the tree.

The tree shook a little – as if caught by a breeze – and Iorlen dropped gracefully to the ground. He removed the arrow and returned it to the quiver at his hip.

"How many?" Kasper asked.

"Between ten and twelve in total. Most are in the town; some are out towards the rift." Iorlen said quietly. "The people have barricaded themselves inside the Chantry. The demons are trying to break in."

"We have to help them," Eschell rounded on Kasper. "I won't let them die like this."

"People die," Kasper said bluntly. "Get used to it."

"But they don't need to die now because we stood around talking!"

"What would you do?" Kasper barked, looming over the shorter elf. "Run in, sword raised – outnumbered, with no plan, and against unknown enemies?"

"I would at least be helping people!" Eschell shouted.

"But you would be dead. And they would still die."

"Not to break up this little debate," Disque tapped his staff on Kasper's shoulder. "But can we get back to stitching up the Veil?"

"We will discuss this later," Kasper snarled at the young elf.

"I'll make sure of it," Eschell spat back.

"Iorlen, drop back with Disque and Verayn," Kasper said, turning away from Eschell's blazing gaze. "We will make our way up the main road to the Chantry and hold the square."

"Finally," Eschell muttered.

The screaming stopped as the group reached the entrance to the town. Kasper stepped cautiously over the corpses of peasants, guardsmen, and the occasional templar. He gripped his greatsword tighter, his sharp eyes darting in all directions. To his left, Misthal kept low behind her shield, angled slightly down to deflect missiles and magic away from her body. On the other side of the street, Eschell held her blade down by her side, ready to sweep it up at a moment's notice. Doors hung crookedly on their hinges, blood spattered on the wood from peasants that had tried to escape the demons. Wind whistled in and out of shattered windows. Then, out of the darkness, the demons began to take shape. Some shambled on mismatched legs; others glided across the ground – torn and tattered rags drifting behind them.

From across the street, a bellow shattered the air. Eschell sprinted forwards, her sword held high above her head. Cursing the girl, Kasper sprinted after her, checking himself as bodies threatened to trip him up. In seconds, he had caught up to Eschell, shock written across her face as the giant elf charged past her. A tall, emaciated creature standing at least four feet above Kasper lurched in his direction. It had pallid, sickly green skin, and limbs that seemed too long for its body. Each of these limbs – made up of lean, twisted muscle ad sinew – ended in a claw with cruelly sharp talons. Kasper took in each of these features as the creature approached. An arm swept back, and with a screech it swung heavily in Kasper's direction as a ballista releases its bolt. In one smooth movement, Kasper thrust the blade into the ground beneath him as the arm bore down on him. The demon had no chance to realise its mistake, and the arm came down on nothing but the Nevarran's greatsword.

With a screech the demon fell back, minus half an arm. Ice was beginning to creep across the wound, freezing the dark blood as it left the wound. Tiny droplets of frozen black blood thudded to the ground before the wound was completely frozen over. Barely missing a beat, Kasper pulled out one of the heavy black-hilted longswords. They were single-edged blades – more akin to a butcher's cleaver than the elegant blades found in Orlais or Tevinter. Kasper ducked a flailing swipe from the enraged demon and swung hard at the misshapen, sinewy legs. The blade cut through the sickly flesh and severed the leg using only sheer, brutal force, then carried on to do the same to the opposite leg. The demon toppled to the ground at Kasper's feet, giving off a final screech before Kasper thrust his sword through its tooth-lined mouth and into its skull with enough force to penetrate the ground behind it.

Kasper wrenched the blade from the ground, then examined his immediate surroundings. Near the doors of the Chantry, Misthal was engaging a pair of demons consisting of little more than robes draped over a collection of bones. Eschell was spinning a dance of death around another of the shambling creatures. Suddenly, Kasper felt his armour growing hot, as if someone was holding a fire to it. He turned, blade swinging up towards the source of the heat, when a fist clubbed the Nevarran across the shoulder. Had an ordinary person stood in the path of the attack, it would likely have crushed their armour and broken most of the bones in their arm. Unfortunately for this demon – formed of molten ore, though it was – this was no ordinary person. The attack merely staggered him a little. With a roar, the demon began to advance on the elf, leaving a trail of scorched earth behind it. Kasper backed away towards his greatsword, fending off blows as he went. As he came within a yard of his blade, Kasper was caught with a glancing blow on his helmet. His head spinning, the Nevarran tumbled to the ground, his sword slipping from his grip. Sensing victory, the demon lunged forward, its fist swinging clumsily in Kasper's general direction as the elf tried to scramble to his feet. Kasper's sharp eyes picked out a curious occurrence as he moved. Ice was spreading up the demon's lower body, spreading quickly. The frost reached the demon's fist as it stretched agonisingly close to Kasper's face.

Kasper rolled to his feet, ripped his greatsword out of the ground, and with a bellow of rage that echoed around the valley, he brought the heavy blade down on the ice-clad demon. The creature shattered into a thousand pieces, as if Kasper had brought his sword down on a clay pot. Breathing heavily, he glanced back down the road he had come from. Disque – a stern look of concentration on his face – jerked his head at Kasper, then hammered the butt of his staff into the ground and sent a bolt of electricity towards a ghostly green aura floating towards Eschell's back. With a strangled screech, the aura faded into nothingness.

In one swift movement, Kasper brought his greatsword up onto his shoulder, seeking out a new target. A ragged robe floated towards him, its arms dragging behind it. A skull – absent its jaw – was fixed in place in the depths of the tattered hood. Twisting with far more agility than could be expected of a soldier in full plate armour, Kasper brought his greatsword straight through the demon's midsection. An assortment of bones were sent flying as the blade cut through the robe – leaving it hanging from a few threads, but the demon kept coming. Its hands groped for Kasper's helmet, and then the skull exploded. Following the path of the arrow, Kasper saw it bury itself in the knee of another of the tall, shambling demons. The demon fell back against the heavy wooden door of the Chantry, and slid to the ground. A second later, Misthal's shining silver sword decapitated the creature.

Taking a moment to gather himself, Kasper wrenched off his helmet and looked up towards the rift. A handful of demons could be seen in the moonlight, their shadowy, misshapen bodies shambling and lurching aimlessly across the side of the valley. Planting his greatsword into the ground, he snatched up his longsword and thrust it into its sheath, then turned to the other elves.

"Eschell, Verayn, stay here. The rest of you come with me."

"If there are demons up there, I'm going with you," Eschell declared, black blood spattered across her pale face and armour.

"No, you're not," Kasper said bluntly. "Your recklessness could have gotten yourself killed. Consider yourself fortunate that you are alive."

"But I didn't get myself killed," she retorted haughtily.

"That's not the point," the Nevarran said through gritted teeth. "We were outnumbered to begin with. If you fell, the rest of us might have been overwhelmed."

"But that didn't –."

" _ENOUGH_!"

Kasper's roar was so loud and powerful that Eschell actually took a step back. Verayn shifted uncomfortably, then pulled the shocked girl away, his crossbow held in a white-knuckle grip. Iorlen's soft hazelnut eyes looked almost pitifully at Kasper, then the ranger shook his head, slung his longbow over one shoulder, and began to make his way towards the edge of the town closest to the rift. Disque shook his head and sighed, then went to join Iorlen, leaving the Nevarran alone with Misthal. Like Kasper, she had removed her helmet, exposing her dark red hair – bound up in an elegant knot – and her angular, grim-faced features. Her eyes were a calm, icy blue.

"That could have gone better," Kasper muttered.

"You certainly could have handled it less…" Misthal searched for the right word. "Forcefully."

"Eschell was in the wrong," Kasper declared quietly, as much to himself as to Misthal. "She endangered the rest of us. She was wrong."

"She was," Misthal nodded, "But she's young, reckless. You can't push caution down a throat that's baying for blood."

"She needs to learn," he shook his head. "It's going to get her killed."

Misthal lapsed into silence at this. She pulled her helmet back on, shifted her shield on her arm, and marched quickly away in the direction of Iorlen and Disque. Kasper brooded on the discussion. He was a leader, but he expected his subordinates to follow his orders. In the Iron Legions, either you followed orders, or you and your unit were lashed into unconsciousness – something he had learned at the hands of a particularly brutal lieutenant. Kasper considered that if he did that with Eschell, he may receive some stern words from the other Knights. Still brooding on the problem, Kasper wrenched his greatsword out of the ground and threw it over one shoulder. He threw on his helmet and joined the trio at the edge of the town.

Kasper heard the whisper of voices on the wind long before he reached Misthal, Iorlen, and Disque. He could have heard every word if he wanted to, but he ignored the mutterings. It was nothing he wished to hear right now. Iorlen was crouched by a young child at a doorway, humming a soft lullaby as he reached behind his back and drew out a knife. As Kasper approached, he could see the deep claw marks gouged into his chest. She wouldn't last the hour. The ranger brushed a tear away from the child's eye, then thrust his blade up through her jaw and into her brain. A painless death. Iorlen muttered a short blessing for the child as he cleaned and sheathed his knife. When he turned back to the others, his eyes – normally soft and curious – had grown hard and dark as stone.

"Let's go," Iorlen muttered, pulling his longbow from his shoulder and knocking an arrow.

"That's it," Disque sighed, following in the wake of the ranger. "I'm the only one that isn't depressed."

"She was innocent, mage!" Iorlen spat at him in a low voice reminiscent of a growling wolf. "She should not have died tonight."

"There is no innocence in this world," Disque said quietly, the smile slipping from his face. "You would do well to remember that."

"I can imagine you know all about the world from inside that tower of yours," Iorlen snorted. Kasper frowned. He had never seen the ranger act like this before.

"I've seen enough in my time outside that tower," Disque said darkly. Then he flashed his perfect white teeth. "But I refuse to let it get me down! And if it does, I'll rail against all the firstborn of Tevinter!"

"Disque," Misthal called to the mage.

"Yes, my dear?"

"You're fucking insane."

"Yes, my dear."

"This doesn't bother you?"

"If the fool is happier than the king, who has the better life?"

"The king," Kasper said, a grim smile on his face. "He can execute the fool."

Disque shot Kasper an amused look. "I'm not sure that answer is representative of a healthy mind."

As the mage spoke, Kasper heard curious sounds from the forest around him: breathing too faint to be from those around him. Leaves rustling too much for the light breeze to be pushing them. The thin, reedy rasp of metal of leather. He abruptly stopped, snapping into a combat stance and turning in the direction of the noises, his eyes flashing everywhere.

"What is it?" Misthal asked, raising her shield and moving to Kasper's side.

"Something's out there," he muttered to her, his eyes straining to penetrate the darkness.

Iorlen pulled his bow from his shoulder, an arrow flying from his quiver and into his hand in the time it took Kasper to blink. The ranger slowly backed away until he stood behind Kasper and Misthal. Disque stamped his staff on the ground, and electricity crackled up the metal shaft like a bolt of lightning. The burst of magic illuminated around half a dozen silhouettes in the darkness ahead of them. Though the light was faint, Kasper picked out elegantly curved blades, and familiar items held only by a handful of people.

"I am Kasper Verghaust," he said proudly, burying his sword in the ground. "Come stand in the light, and let us talk."

From the trees, six figures in black leather slinked from the shadows, sheathing weapons as they did so. Another two elves dropped lightly from the trees, landing with barely a sound. Ellana Vashenn pulled down her mask and approached the group as her infiltrators began to talk amongst themselves.

"There were demons on the hillside," Kasper said immediately, jerking his head in the direction of the rift.

"We dealt with them," Ellana said grimly. Kasper picked out a trio of cuts on her left arm. "The town?"

"Secured. Eschell and Verayn are there now."

"Good," Ellana nodded and began to move past him. "We can scavenge any supplies we need. We need to leave soon."

"Wait," Kasper caught her by the arm. He saw a look of rage cross Ellana's face for half a second before she composed herself. "What's going on? Demons do not spring out of rifts for no reason."

"We can talk later." Ellana jerked her arm out his grip.

"We can talk now."

"The sky has been torn asunder in the east," a haunting chorus of voices said quietly, the whisper carrying on the silent night air. "Not by demons pressing against the veil, but by magic. Someone is trying to go through."

"Like the magisters of old?" Disque cocked his head at Illian. "You're not joking, are you? All of you? One of you didn't think it'd be funny to say that someone was trying to break through to the Fade for their own personal gain?"

"Unfortunately not," Illian replied, though his pale, grim features were broken by the hint of a smile.

"Well," Disque sighed. "Now I'm depressed. I guess that makes all of us."


End file.
